


Cue To Cue

by obfuscatress



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, F/M, Mistaken Identity, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-17 11:30:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8142125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: This, Harry decides, has to be Bridget Jones.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a tumblr prompt fill for: "'You never told me you had a fucking twin.' with Bridget/Mark and Harry as the twin." Thank you to the anonymous prompter for the inspiration. Title refers to theatre terminology.

Harry glances impatiently at his clock and wonders what could be holding up his cab for this long. He’s been waiting for ten minutes, going on fifteen, and there is only so much time one can spend loitering outside a Waitrose before it’s classified as suspicious, even if he does look like the sort of bloke who’d shop there. He watches a family of four emerge, one of the children screaming their head off and he’s just about certain his eardrums have ruptured, when he hears someone say, “Oof, Mark, there you are,” as she’s pushing a baby on him.

“Sorry I’m running late. William spit up on himself twice,” the woman says and Harry notes she’s out of breath like she’s run here, half her makeup done in a hurry and her dress is bunched up on one side, though her coat hides it well. What computes next is that she called him Mark, which narrows the cause of the spiel down considerably.

“I only just arrived,” he says, not quite playing along, but not correcting her on his identity either. 

This, he decides, has to be Bridget Jones. She is all his mother would talk about the last time he popped down to the estate for tea between missions. Beyond that he only remembers her vaguely from a summer in his childhood, when he’d broken his leg and he’d watched her run around the garden with Mark from confines of the upstairs study. She’s entirely different now of course, although her hair still seems to be sticking out at the same angles now as she’s wiping snot off her son’s face.

_ William _ , Mark and Bridget’s son, Harry’s nephew. He hasn’t seen him before, couldn’t make it to the hospital - horrible tragedy in Brno - or the christening, which happened to overlap with a truly miserable three week stay in Southeastern Russia, and Christmas is yet to come. Despite Harry being a complete stranger, William seems happy enough to be in his arms, even if he’s got that contemplative frown of Mark’s etched onto his face. Harry has to admit he looks exactly like him and Mark did in the old photo albums, carbon copies the whole lot of them.

Peering up at his face, Bridget says: “I didn’t know you’d gotten new reading glasses.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, new prescription.”

“They’re quite nice.”

“Are they?”

“Yeah.” She bites her lip and he wonders if this is where she notices, because he’s got a rather jarring scar unfolding underneath them, snaking across the side of his skull and curling just beneath the temple of the glasses. Unlike Mark Darcy, Harry Hart has been shot in the head before.

Bridget doesn’t seem to notice. Her phone pings and snaps her out of her thoughts, eyes moving from his face to the screen. “Fuck, Shazzer just got the roast out of the oven,” she mutters, “We’re going to be so late.”

“I’m sure she’s more interested in our company than the food,” Harry says and hopes he’s deduced right that Shazzer is a family friend from Bridget’s side.

“How do you always know what to say?” There’s an evident fondness in her voice when she asks and Harry can almost feel the love of a relationship he isn’t a part of. William makes a displeased sound in his arms like he’s finally sussed him out as an impostor.

“Yes, we’re going,” Bridget coos at the baby. “God, you’re such an impatient boy.” To Harry, or rather Mark, she says, “Did you get the wine?”

“Oh blimey, I must’ve forgotten.” Harry mightn’t be half bad an actor when he’s emulating his own twin brother, but even he can’t procure a bottle of wine out of thin air.  _ Theatre without props _ , he thinks. “I can pop into the shop though,” he offers.

“No, I’ll go. I need call Shazzer anyway, and it’ll be easier without William trying to nick the phone.” She smiles at her son as she says it and he grins back instinctively. 

They’re so pure in their happiness, Harry smiles too and wonders if this is what Mark’s life is like nowadays. She presses a kiss to William’s soft cheek and barely escapes having her hair trapped in his chubby fists. He closes them around the folds in Harry’s scarf instead, making some high pitched noise of glee he can’t interpret.

“Right, time for some rosé,” Bridget says as she turns away to rummage through her purse, zipping open a compartment in search of her wallet.

Harry looks up to see Mark on the other side of the street, a look of confusion turning into realisation as their eyes meet, and Harry thinks he’s in deep shit. Their mother best not hear of this. “Bridget,” he says, eager to get William out of his arms.

“One sec,” she mutters, still engrossed in the bowels of her bag. He’s about to say something in protest, when one of the handles slips from the grasp of her fingers and the contents of the purse go spilling out on the street. “Oh, shit!”

“Bridget,” he says again, more impatient this time, because he can make out the death grip Mark’s fists are wrapped in around his briefcase from all the way over here.

“Just-”

“Bridget,” Mark, the real one this time, says from behind her with that dangerous edge to his voice Harry doesn’t dare use with civilians. It has the desired effect, Bridget spinning around on her heels to look up at him, and then over to Harry.

Her eyes move from one to the other a few times, her mouth opening and closing as the words fail to form on her tongue. “Mark?” she ask eventually, looking at the right man, although she’s soon got her attention on the double holding her baby.

“It’s Harry, actually,” he introduces himself with a charming smile and holds his hand out to her as she gets to her feet.

“My brother,” Mark clarifies.

“ _ Twin _ brother,” Harry adds.

She levels him with an incredulous look. “You have a twin?”

“Obviously,” Harry interjects before Mark has the time to reply. “Pleased to meet you. And William.”

“Christ, I’m so sorry for shoving him on you like that. It’s just… you two look exactly the same.” 

Another glance between the brothers. Harry thinks they haven’t done this in a long time, not properly since school. 

Mark goes to say, “Well, not exactly-”

“No,” Harry agrees, “I have a scar.” He points to temple.

“And there’s the moles.”

“The moles too, but that’s really not something you’d notice when we’re fully clothed,” Harry says and Mark blushes in the fluorescent glare of Waitrose. “We’re really quite easy to confuse. We even get our clothes tailored at the same place. Although, you’ll notice Mark’s coat is charcoal, while mine is pitch black.”

“Right,” Bridget says slowly. “How come we haven’t met?”

“Harry is very busy working with a variety of international clients.”

That catches her attention. “You’re not a barrister too, are you?”

“No, I’m a tailor.”

“Ooh, so you work with scissors and fabrics and things.” She laughs nervously. “Just cutting away bits and pieces and stitching them together, I presume.”

“Something like that.” Harry smiles at her, his best diplomatic smile, the one Mark taught him years ago when they started at Eton together. “It’s really not particularly exciting compared to what my brother does. Positively saving the world in courtrooms.”

“Yes, he’s quite marvellous, isn’t he?” She brushes a hand against Mark’s back and offers him a warm smile.

That seems to make the tension in his brother’s shoulders dissipate, and he crouches down to gather Bridget’s various belongings still scattered on the pavement. “We’re actually awfully late to a dinner party,” he says pointedly.

“Oh, fuck. Shazzer is going to crucify me.”

“No she won’t.”

“I certainly hope not,” Harry says. He’s relieved to see his cab has arrived, sidling up to the edge of the pavement in wait for him. But he doesn’t offer his excuses like he’d originally intended. Instead, he steps past Bridget to open to cab door and says, “You know what, why don’t you take my cab. That way, if it helps you avoid being murdered, we can all go out for dinner sometime.”

“Harry, you really don’t have to,” Bridget says, “Besides, the rosé.”

“Bridget, no one’s going to give a damn about a bottle of wine,” Mark says as he rises to his feet with her purse in one hand and his briefcase in the other. “Let’s go already.”

“You ought to listen to Mark; he’s a smart man.”

She looks between the two of them briefly, both equally convincing, and nods. Harry returns William to his mother while Mark clambers into the back of the cab ahead of them. 

“My deepest apologies to the hostess for keeping you,” Harry says, holding the door.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It was nice to finally meet you,” Bridget says and William adds a shriek that may or may not be in agreement.

Beside her, Mark says, “Bridget, we’re really late.”

All Harry hears when he shuts the door is Bridget’s accusatory: “Well, excuse me. You’re the one who never told me you had a fucking twin.”

Left alone on the pavement, Harry shakes his head. Sometimes his private life is more bizarre than his profession. As if on cue - and maybe Merlin’s been stalking him through CCTV again - his glasses announce an incoming call.

“Merlin,” Harry says cheerfully.

“Why aren’t you in the taxi?”

“Ever pleasant and always straight to the point, I see. It seemed to have a more urgent use.”

“Well, you need to get your arse to HQ right this instant. There’s been a gas explosion in Rotterdam.”

“I’m en route,” Harry says and shifts his umbrella from one hand to the other as he heads towards Savile Row. “I should be there in ten.”

“Bloody well hope so. What’s keeping you anyway?”

“Just a little dinner double booking hiccup,” he says, “Nothing to worry about.”


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about Harry, Mark has always found, is that he is charming in an unforgettable way. Casual invites to their dormitory were always followed up on, one conquest or another always showing up to watch rowing practise. Time hasn’t seemed to change that fact in the slightest, he thinks as he corks the wine just as the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” he yells up the stairs.

Mark opens the door to Harry perched on the doorstep, leaning onto his umbrella with a grin and a bottle of wine in his hand. “Brother dear,” he says and Mark rolls his eyes.

“Do you always have to be so melodramatic?”

“Comes with the profession. I’m a man of diversions,” Harry says and steps past him into the hallway.

“Yes, as your lawyer, I would know all about that. Which prison was it last? Magadan?”

“That was three and half years ago,” Harry says, “Besides, you enjoy the challenge.”

He’s not wrong in that, although Mark didn’t appreciate sitting at a police station in Eastern Russia at two in the morning one bit. Harry remains his only permanent client to date, exempt from the realm of high profile human rights cases Mark has been taking on for the better part of two decades now. Harry isn’t a case that swallows him whole for months or years on end, but he isn’t resolved in one go either, resurfacing on the other end of his one phone call from some obscure prison again and again.

Mark isn’t entirely sure anymore if it’s fraternal obligation on both sides or a matter of competence now. After all, he’d started getting his suits tailored at Kingsman to support Harry, but made the bullet proof arsenal a permanent fixture in his closet after realising he’s unfortunate enough to have a look-alike secret agent on the loose. Him and Harry have always had a knack for getting each other in trouble.

“You have had worse years,” Mark admits.

“True. Remember 1992?”

“I’d much prefer not to.”

They drift through the living room into the kitchen, somehow always in tune no matter how long they’ve been apart. Mark peers into the oven while Harry pries open cabinet doors looking for the wine glasses.

“You’ve moved house again. It’s a bloody nuisance.”

“Lots of things can happen in three years, Harry.”

“Indeed. You’ve what? Gotten married, divorced, and had a child with another woman.”

Mark cringes at that and Harry’s teasing smile transforms into a concerned frown. “Bridget’s not exactly happy about all that,” Mark says, “Understandably. If you don’t mind not bringing it up.”

“Of course. You have talked to her though? Because if I have to watch a third marriage of yours-”

“Despite what you may think, I’m not a complete oaf.”

“I never said that,” Harry says pointedly, “but you do have a history of letting the rigid cane up your arse run your life.”

“Christ-” Mark flushes and turns back to the roast in the oven. “Besides, we’re not married.”

“Perhaps not on paper. Don’t cock it up is all I’m saying.”

“I won’t.”

“Good,” Harry says and corks the bottle, “because she’s coming down the stairs right now.”

“You and your spy senses,” Mark grumbles just before Bridget appears in the doorway with William in her arms.

“Oh, hello. You two are already in full swing with the wine,” she says and presses a kiss to Mark’s cheek. “Sorry I took so long,” bridget says to Harry, “We had a bit of an incident earlier involving lots of porridge and my hair.”

“William’s got your aim for destruction,” Mark says to Harry, who groans.

“It was  _ only  _ three windows.”

“It was the same window three times. Reordan came so close to mauling you.”

Bridget moves to set William down in a baby walker. “Is this a story I want to hear?” she asks and watches her son shuffle slowly across the kitchen floor with a bright smile.

The two brothers give each other a sideways glance before Mark says, “Not really. I’ve got far more incriminating tales of our time at Cambridge. He had a worse reputation than Daniel Cleaver.”

Bridget cocks an eyebrow at that.

“I have much better manners, I assure you,” Harry says, offering her a glass of wine.

“But just as much mischief,” Mark adds.

“Better taste in wine though, wouldn’t you say, Bridget?” Harry turns to her with a knowing smile and Mark suppresses a brief impulse to kick him in the shin.

Bridget only sips at the wine and says: “This is much better than anything he ever bought me, but I don’t know how you would know about that?” She levels Mark with a  _ look _ and he averts his eyes.

To make matters worse, Harry says, “Oh, you know, the usual. Mark crying on his big brother’s shoulder.”

“For the record, I’m the  _ older _ one,” Mark says and clears his throat.

“By four minutes. And I’ve grown taller.”

“By half an inch.”

“Boys, please,” Bridget interrupts. “You’re both dashing and impossible. Mind me asking what the wine is, Harry?”

“It’s an Alphonse Mellot Cuvée Edmond.”

“Don’t we have that as well?” Bridget asks and picks up the other open bottle on the counter.

“Mark prefers the 2002, I lean toward the 2006,” Harry explains.

“The 2006 is more expensive, not that it matters. I simply prefer the flavour profile.”

Harry turns to Bridget. “How about you?”

“Uh, I’m really not an authority on the subject. I’ve always been a Chardonnay girl.” Bridget chuckles and makes a face at Harry. She doesn’t suppose he’s the sort who’d get drunk alone at home crying down the phone on their birthday, but then the Darcys have always been full of surprises. “Cocktails and shots and other such things.”

“Nothing beats a good bottle of vodka.”

“I beg to differ, when it gets you thrown into a thai prison.”

“That’s not how I-” Bridget says with a confused look, before Mark interrupts her to add, “I meant Harry.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. She asks: “You’ve been in a thai prison too?”

“There was an incident, yes, but I’m afraid I’m prone to little squabbles with the authorities here and there. Good thing to have Mark as a brother. What worries me is the ‘too’ in that question.”

Bridget laughs nervously and says, “That was really not my fault. My friend met this guy - gorgeous and half her age - and, uh, he gave this hideous fertility snake bowl, which ended up in my luggage because she’d run out of space in her suitcase. The bowl out to be a massive stash of cocaine and a bit of a pickle for me of course, which is how I ended up singing Madonna behind bars renting my bra out for cigarettes.” She fights a blush and swallows. The story has become funny over the years, but she’s never told it to anyone in a tailored suit. “But, you know, Mark’s quite skilled at handling these sort of things and here I am, not renting out my undergarments.”

“You’ve never told me about this,” Harry says to his brother, sounding accusing and amused at once.

“It was a bit of a convoluted matter at the time,” he says and looks at Bridget, the memory of Daniel Cleaver passing unspoken between them. He ought to have gotten it right then already, but all roads lead to Rome. Eight years and many hiccups later he’s got Bridget - still, again - and William.

“How is that roast beef looking?”

“Almost done.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s quite remarkable,” Harry says as he’s crouched down opposite William in his walker. The baby squeals at him, offering a four and a half toothed grin at his uncle as Bridget laughs at them from the sofa.

“Be careful,” she says just in time for William to reach out for Harry’s face with his apple puree covered fingers.

“Oh, foul,” Harry shouts and Bridget dissolves into a new, wine infused bout of giggles.

Mark returns with another bottle of wine and a kitchen towel he tosses at Harry. “And another has fallen victim to William Jones-Darcy’s cunningly deceptive charm.”

“A good general rule is not to get within arms reach, unless you’re prepared to be covered in food or bodily fluids.”

“Although he doesn’t spit up anymore.”

Harry wipes at his face and gives them both a look. “Aren’t you two just delightful?”

“What are you implying?” Mark asks and takes a seat on the sofa next to Bridget, who curls into him. He notes she’s long discarded her shoes to pull her legs up under her and that there’s a loose thread in her tights that’s ripped from her heel halfway up her thigh. So very Bridget, he thinks, as he settles an arm around her. “We’re unbelievably exciting.”

“Indeed,” Bridget agrees with a twinkle in her eye. “We never go out, Mark spends most his free time baby proofing every nook of the house, and I’ve developed quite the knack for removing dried stains. How dare you call us dull?”

It’s Harry’s turn to laugh, something William seems to find particularly entertaining, since he shoves his food coated teething ring at him as an offering.

“Thank you, William,” Harry tells him seriously and sets the plastic ring down on the towel with the briefest flash of disgust crossing his face.

“He’ll want that back in about twenty seconds, by the way,” Mark says, though he doesn’t doubt Harry would figure that out for himself just fine.

He does rather well with William in a way Mark didn’t expect. They used to be so similar, him and Harry, it went without question that he could do anything Harry could and Harry could do anything he did, but over the years they’ve grown to become wholly different people: Mark being the sensible, if slightly emotionally stunted one looking to settle down while Harry had chosen a life of lonely extravagance. Come to think of it, they probably haven’t spent an evening together this effortlessly in a decade.

Mark wonders if this is Bridget’s doing too. She’s the one who mistook Harry for Mark in the street and brought him face to face with his nephew for the first time. She’s the one to have pestered Mark about inviting Harry to dinner. Moreover she gets along with Harry, running with his eccentricities in a way Mark has never seen anyone do before. It’s so different from tense Christmas dinners with Camilla on the family estate, of her giving him impatient sideways glances during Harry’s wilder tales.

This, on the other hand, is pleasant, the three of them and William existing in some bizarre sort of harmony involving the trading of prison stories. Mark could get used to it.

As if on cue, William lets out a high pitched scream, pointing to the teething ring on the coffee table.

“Please and thank you, William,” Harry says, but hands it over anyway. “Manners maketh man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr at [obfuscatress.tumblr.com](obfuscatress.tumblr.com%22) :) Feel free to come scream at me or send me more prompts. I'm eager trash.

**Author's Note:**

> Part two coming soon.


End file.
